


Night of Nights

by jenni3penny



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenni3penny/pseuds/jenni3penny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode tag for 'Secret Santa', S2: E8. Cal Lightman, Peter Pan. “Kiss or kill, love. It's all the same. Thimble's a kiss. Boys get lost. Forget their addresses.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night of Nights

_“He had one of his dreams that night, and cried in his sleep for a long time, and Wendy held him tightly.” - J.M. Barrie_

 

* * *

 

Foster had a tendency to tease his eyes and tug on his craving (whether it was conscious or not). She tended to yank on something low in his gut just by moving the right (or wrong) way and just close his throat with the slow turn and angling shift of her head. The thin and delicate little arch in her wrist just before she placed the flat of her palm against any part of his body generally did him in dead. Not that he'd admit it, not that he'd tell her that some nights he just wanted to suck against that thin to nearly translucent skin while her fingers reflexively curled up under his tongue and lips and teeth.

She could stretch back in the chair beside him and slay his heartbeat sluggish if she shifted her hips just at the right angle to the seat and leaned one _gorgeous_ leg over the other.

What was worse was that she damn well knew it, some days.

An intentional foreplay of her figure, precisely and immaculately shined up and expertly wrapped in some sort of fabric he couldn't decipher (because he wasn't a bloody tailor now, was he?).

“Sight for sore eyes, that is,” he murmured quietly, cocking his head slowly into the blatant study of her body from tip top to toe.

It wasn't his favorite dress – didn't actually do all that much for her figure.

He knew her curves could have been crowded by something tighter, warmer, silkier.

This fabric was rough and layered and like lace but not and, hell... why couldn't she just stick with one color instead of two on top of each other and -

“Cal?” Her head hadn't even turned from the way she was leaned forward, her body bent as she cocked an especially delightful and strappy little heel onto the edge of her couch cushion. “You're staring.”

“Aye, aye,” he agreed without remorse, just lingered his glance up the toned muscle of her calf and the stretch of her arms and there was something so gently arching to the curve of her spine.

“Cal.” Her head was turned to him and she was smirking indulgently, enjoying the fact that he couldn't seem to look away and fingers busy as she blindly worked the clasp of an anklet against the bony but elegant flex of her ankle.

Could slowly lick his way along that line too if she'd let him.

Maybe she'd let him this time. He'd nearly died, really. Shouldn't that be worth enough??

Wasn't every day he could say _'But, darling, been in Afghanistan – and seems they don't much like me there. Aimed right at m'head, they did.'_.

“You're staring,” she asserted again softly as she fussed at the little silvered chain. “You okay?”

“Been a hell of a....” he shook his head into meeting her eyes, huffing a battered little laugh through his nose as her eyes went softer in concern. “Just tired. Where'd that come from?”

“I don't know.” Her concern for him bled into how easily she straightened away from putting on the (cheaper than her usual taste) anklet, her hips already leading her in his direction as she cocked her head into studying his face and reached a hand into playfully tugging on his scarf. “Secret Santa means that Santa's identity is, as implied, kept a secret.”

“Messed that bit up, eh?” he blushed up at her, shrugging childlishly and petulantly as he dropped a glance over how slowly she was winding her fingers into the weave of the scarf.

“I don't think Loker minded. It was a thoughtful gift.” Gill gave another tug, her other hand catching against his wrist and squeezing once in a sort of surreptitious seriousness before she exhaled slowly, dipped her head to catch his eyes as she spoke, “Wanna talk?”

“Not really. But, yes.” He lifted his wrist around and caught against her hand, the way he was avoiding her brighter eyes the exact truth of his confusion as he just pulled her hand up and leaned into hugging her. “But... no. Y'know?”

She let him sink into her and he knew that, really, in the long run, it was because she could legitimately see weariness on him. There was a cautious gentleness to her embrace that made him feel a little more brittle and fragile than he liked and he wrapped his arms up against her, dug her tighter and closer as her arm curled on his shoulders. He felt the other hand clasp into the fabric of his scarf, her fingers curling up closed between them as he buried his face into her shoulder. A submissive groaning came off him as she lifted the one hand to catch the back of his head, fingers rubbing into his scalp as a motion of comfort as she kissed chastely against the side of his head.

“How deep did you go, Cal?” The question was whispered guardedly and with trepidation just behind his ear and he curled up tighter into her in response. He purposefully ignored its implication while focusing as much energy as he could on memorizing how full she felt just so closely pressed down the entire front of him. “How far down did you dig in that hole?”

Hell, he loved and lauded and loathed that tone all at once – the one that said she knew him better than anyone else. Maybe even better than Emily. Better than himself, some days. And, sure, maybe she did.

She'd known he'd get so righteously high on the rush, on the arid heat, the incredible sway and pull of knowing ( _absolutely knowing_ ) he could be done for and done in with just the right coordinates and a whole lotta enemy ordnance.

He lifted his jaw only marginally, set it heavily onto her shoulder as he blindly stared at the shadows that slanted over her book shelves. “Toil as we may, we all sleep at last on the field.”

“Literary deflection? Really?” Gill snorted a small puff of air near his ear, her head turning as she leaned back enough to try and draw his attention. “Don't do that.”

The hand at the back of his head stroked slowly downward before she made that very specific turn of her wrist and backed her knuckles onto his cheek. It was a mothering movement and he shoulda expected it out of her, actually. Her eyes and their twitchy brightness said she was worried and that she'd probably been cranked up with concern since he'd said his goodbye. His skin said she was so deliciously close, though. Felt feverish himself if he were honest. Seemed to be true to life too because she was testing the temperature of his flush even as she drew her head farther back and waited for an answer from him.

He wasn't sick. Knew that. Didn't have a fever or a sniff or a cold.

He was coming down, Sunday-morning-style.

Adrenaline junkie on the prowl, losing the last blurred and sand-silted edges of the grandest fuckin' fix he'd had in ages.

“M'exhausted, Gill,” he explained with a muted tone, finally turning a blank look back in her direction. “Sit with me a minute? Please?”

Her head tipped farther aside as her eyes thinned, scrutiny clear in the way she was searching over his face and she finally just wiped her fingers from his face and both hands caught his shoulders.

“Okay.” She nodded and she parted them slightly, pushing against his sagged frame. “Let me tell Emily where you are. You hungry?”

“Not at all.” he groused as he caught along her hand, turned his fingers up looping around that wrist he loved so dearly and tugged her still.

Her face went serious, “I'm bringing you food anyhow. You need to - ”

“Don't.” His fingers jerked closed and pulled her back into his swayed leaning, head shaking as he winced a shrug at her. “Can't y'just... can't be alone with my head right now.”

He saw her shoulders drop into an instantaneous acquiescence, a quick nod on her that he knew he'd get if he pulled on her just enough. If he gave her just more than a margin of truth and freely fessed it up between them, let her hear it and see it. Because he knew that she'd know it was truth, it was sincerity, and that letting him pull her down onto the couch with him was probably about the only thing he really wanted. Cal smirked sadly into the shifting she made, the way she let her body angle against his and sit higher than his slumping as she rubbed her fingers at his shoulder and dropped her head toward his.

She was waiting for more than he could give at the moment.

He certainly didn't want to lose her attention, though.

Not when it felt so distinctly right in how comforting it was.

Not when she felt so right under his leaning.

“Ria, by the way.” His fingers flicked out rapidly, aiming toward the twitch of her foot as she crossed her legs and angled farther into his side, her fingers still wandering his shoulder. “Was Ria got you that. She was afraid you wouldn't like it. Was worried because - ”

“Why do you do that?” Gill sighed off as she shook her head into how close he suddenly seemed.

Cal slowly tugged his scarf from around his neck, the sweat that was building under it tickling on his already flushed up skin. “Do what?”

“Ruin surprises,” she pouted at him and rolled her eyes. “Some surprises are worth being unaware of, Cal.”

“Sorry, love.” He looked up at her appropriately scolded but bemused, actually mildly ashamed as he mugged her a goofy little smile and looped the scarf on her. “M'sorry. Want a new surprise then?”

“From you? Really?” Her amazement was mostly put on, mostly a taunt to draw him out a bit more as she watched him tug another bag from his jeans pocket, her brow knitting as he sluggishly lifted it in her direction. “Small-ish.”

“Passin' judgment on small packages, Foster?” Cal snarked back, snugging himself back down into a more comfortable shifting as she let off a breath of a laugh and opened the paper bag and slid her fingers into it.

“What...” A pocketable plastic bag shushed into her hand from inside the paper one, sealed as she pinched onto it and shifted her head into studying the messy little trinket inside it. Blood had crusted dark on the tracking device but it was obvious what it was and she was just as obviously aware of its existence as she huffed out a sound of bitterness, like disappointment. “You pulled this from Franko? This is - ”

“Welsh. Glen Welsh,” Cal corrected the interruption softly into her shoulder, bore his jaw down into her closeness so that he could feel the solid curve and warm stability of her under his cheek. “Government property, that. Prob'ly illegal to have it.”

“Well,” her fingers were rubbing against the baggie, turning it over so that she could study the malfunctioning chip, “you'll have to pay my bail. We're keeping this.”

“Course I will,” he agreed on a lagging and lazy tone. “Course we are.”

He nuzzled into her after saying it, not caring much about lines or propriety or even being civil. Sleepiness was heavy on him and he could very suddenly feel the aches and hurts from the previous days lower him heavier into her couch. Bit of him hated that he'd had to track her down in her own space rather than luring her into his. His couch was more comfortable for moments like these. Not that she often allowed him (or herself) many of them. Still... woulda been an easier confession in his own space, rather than feeling like he was side by side on the therapeutic couch with Doctor Foster, Psychologist. Especially when he just wanted his Gillian.

“Killed that little lost boy, Gill. Put a gun in his hands and then left him alone.”

Welsh _had_ been a boy lost.

And what else would a boy do in his place, eh?

What else _could_ a boy do in that place to survive?

He felt her lungs fill rapidly under his leaning more than he heard the intake of breath, felt her wince into his name as her right hand came up to press along the side of his head. “Cal - ”

“Like sniper alley,” he mumbled onto her bare shoulder, avoiding how close the turn of her wrist was, denying himself the pleasure of kissing onto that skin. “Gave someone else the kill, but it was my choice, wasn't it?”

Maybe bein' in her office wasn't so bad after all. Still had her in it.

Least he wasn't lost, not when he so easily knew his way to this place.

“Welsh made his own decisions. This was not - ”

“Made the execution order, though. Didn't I?” He'd interrupted her enough that she just lifted her jaw into the fact that he didn't much feel like taking her word as he kept talking, head lifting back up into argument. “Both times.”

She'd made the decision not to argue him then. And good. Because he'd rather she just watched him with those rainstorm eyes than force him to argue whether or not he was at fault for leaving that poor kid with a forty five second window of negative salvation. Hadn't killed him, no. Just left him the means and the lack of any other choice or avenue of action.

“Twelve forty five, Glenview Park. Iowa City,” he finally spoke to the innocent and troubled way she was watching him, her eyes holding his in silence. “Right, Wendy Bird?”

“Wendy?” She semi smiled patiently and with some sort of heat that he was intrigued by, something that said she was happier he was home than maybe he'd expected – even if he was being a bit of a prick. “As in Peter's Wendy? Peter and his Lost Boys?”

“Tha's a thimble, that is,” he told her, nodding the words toward where the tracking chip was still clasped up in her palm as he leaned back nearer her shoulder. “Give us a kiss?”

Gill laughed near silently into the way he smiled a push of silliness at her, begged a momentary reprieve and forgiveness just by how frivolous he could be. He could feel that his eyes were lidded sleepily and his energy was all but gone, but he couldn't help dote on her a little. Couldn't help the fact that his affection for her managed to fuel a margin of mischief regardless of how physically or mentally tired he was, how battered he felt. She was still Gillian, still pressed warmly up against the ragged and exhausted parts of him, still a port post storm.

She shook her head slowly at him and he expected some sort of refusal. Something especially Gillian in its design, sweet but quick-witted-sharp. Something of a patient but still inexplicably loving denial. A sign to say she wanted it, but it still wasn't their time.

He was surprised when she just gently pressed a light and barely made kiss directly onto his lips.

“Hello there.” Cal's brows lifted impishly, his voice hashing low on a weary teasing and surprise, “And another?”

She met him with another warm drop of her lips, this time just a fraction longer, a breath heavier against his mouth before she lifted her head but kept it leaned over him. She tasted of wine and something chocolatey and he could just nearly catch the rest before she'd lifted her head a fraction away. He was busy trying to discern exactly how far up he'd have to shift his jaw to get the tip of her hair to brush his face and the scruff that still itched of imaginary leftover sand.

Wasn't all that far, he was betting.

She took the gamble from him, though. Lifted her hand against his face and paused him still as her eyes swept over him, “Their deaths, the decisions you made?”

Seemed she hadn't really given it up. Shoulda seen that comin'. It _was_ Gillian, after all.

He grunted instant disagreement but she shook her head and shushed his argument with a soft sound through her lips. “Cal, you have to forgive yourself for those decisions. You can't take on all the blame for the situations they found themselves in. The events that led up to - ”

“Kiss or kill, love,” the negation was voided off him, his tone low and vacant even as he let his face lean into the way she was still palming his cheek. “It's all the same. Thimble's a kiss. Boys get lost. Forget their addresses.”

She let her thumb skiff onto his bottom lip, let it rub there as he blinked up into her whispering, “You have to forgive yourself.”

“Kiss me, Wendy Darling?” An unavoidable grin brightened his face, cocky and mostly sure, still sweet and all despite her near scolding of his self loathing. “Just so's I can sleep, huh?”

She looked at him slanted and like she was considering all the possibilities, ramifications and realities. At least until he let up an almost nervous chuckle and she flashed a bright smile into the sound of it between them. Cal turned her a sigh, letting his head broach the back of the couch as he shrugged, as though telling her that he didn't know what to do with himself and certainly didn't expect her to know either.

“Promise me you won't go back there.” Gillian said softly, her jaw nudging up a fraction as she leaned their mouths closer.

“ _There's_ not even there anymore, Gill. Blown off the map now.”

“You know what I mean,” she demanded on a whisper, her lips pouting again as she shook him a frustrated glance.

“I do.” He lifted his mouth to hers, pressed heat and stillness of comfort into a kiss that just laid warm against her lips before he brushed them apart, surprise rolling up his throat as her head angled into following and she pressed it a little longer and harder. “Promise.”

She dropped two more pleased but chaste kisses against him (as though it was... _normal_ ) and he caught the third, stroked his tongue against her lips and groaned sharply when she let him – didn't make a breath of an argument against it. When she parted her lips and leaned into it he grabbed onto the scarf and tugged her closer, taking advantage of the chance she was giving him.

Bleedin' Christ, it was cinnamon. Something mulled and spiced that paired comfortably with the wine and chocolate and just... Gillian.

He heard his own throat grate irritation when she dragged the kiss apart and looked him over.

“ _That_ ,” she hushed over him as they both snuggled down a little deeper into the cushions, “was just a thimble.”

“Call it what y'like, love, but it was more than ' _just_ ' anythin',” he cast off with a flick of his fingers as he let his head dip back near her shoulder, waited out the shifting of her body as she lifted her feet and curled up. “You taste like cinnamon and wine.”

Gill's voice went softly warm and rushed against him, “Close your eyes.”

He grinned, eyes shut and leaned into the comfort of her. “And chocolate.”


End file.
